Jackson Ryle

Jackson grew up on the border of farmland and mountain foothills. He learned guitar from his grandfather, whose workshop smelled like cedar and machine oil.

He left home at 19, chasing a feeling he still can't name — something between freedom and running. Most of his songs come from small moments: the last look before someone shuts a door, the silence on a long drive, the way sunlight hits a town you can't return to without hurting a little.

He writes because talking never quite worked for him.